There’s always time for treats,Fudge argues hopefully.
And just like that, my perfect Christmas gala has turned into something that would make the Grinch himself cackle with glee.
Balthasar Thornfield is dead.
Ho ho hoindeed.
CHAPTER 3
The weight of Balthasar’s head against my chest feels exactly like what I imagine holding a bag of wet cement would be—if wet cement wore a Santa suit and smelled like peppermint regret.
His steel-blue eyes are staring at the ceiling with the vacant expression of a person who’s clearly checked out of this particular Christmas party permanently. And here I am, the unfortunate Christmas cuddle-buddy of Santa who just ghosted out of life—literally.
“Mr. Thornfield?” I whisper, because apparently my voice defaults to librarian mode when faced with a possibly dead man in festive velvet who just so happens to have his face smashed against my boobs. If he weren’t dead, Jasper might want to kill him.
I press two fingers to his neck like I’ve seen in movies—no pulse. Just skin cold enough to chill a bottle of champagne and a general vibe ofyup, definitely dead.
There’s nothing. Not even the tiniest flutter.
“OH MY GOODNESS!” I shriek at a volume that could probably wake the actual dead, though clearly not thisparticular dead guy who’s chosen my lap as his final resting place.
The doors to the inn practically explode inward as Jasper bursts through as if he’s been shot out of a Christmas cannon. He’s waving his badge and it catches the twinkle lights as his expression shifts from concerned husband to seasoned homicide detective in the time it takes most people to blink.
Right behind him is Deputy Leo Granger—Emmie’s husband and Jasper’s best friend—dark hair, dark eyes, and looking considerably more alert than he did a few hours ago when he was systematically destroying the desserts Emmie set out for us to sample. If Leo’s stomach is any indicator, the desserts are going to win some serious blue ribbons—or at the very least make every resident in Cider Cove a pound or two heavier.
“Bizzy!” Jasper rushes over and plucks the dead man from my chest before lifting me away from Balthasar’s limp form with the kind of efficiency that suggests he’s had way too much practice with this exact scenario. Which, let’s face it, he absolutely has.
Leo immediately takes my place, checking for vital signs with professional thoroughness, while I stand there trying to process the fact that I’ve just been intimately acquainted with another dead body—and during the holidays, no less.
Okay, fine, so it’s not my first holiday homicide tango, but it’s something I’m never getting used to either.
At this point, I’m starting to think dead people have some kind of attraction to me, like I’m a crime scene magnet disguised as an innkeeper.
And for the love of all things red and green, please don’t let this be a holiday homicide. It’s Ella’s first Christmas. I’d rather collect baby snuggles than suspects.
“He’s gone,” Leo announces grimly, which triggers a collective scream from the growing crowd of the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour attendees who’ve suddenly realized their festive evening has taken a rather permanent turn toward the macabre.
Jasper’s gray-blue eyes—the ones that usually make me go weak in the knees in the best possible way—fix on me with a mixture of love and concern, like a weatherman predicting a tornado with my name on it and no storm shelter in sight.
“What happened this time?” he asks, and I catch the emphasis onthis timebecause we both know this isn’t exactly our first dead body rodeo—more like our fifteenth, and that’s probably conservative counting. Okay, fine. We are definitely in our thirties as far as corpse collecting goes. But honestly, that’s one oddball achievement I’m not willing to tally mark.
What can I say? We’re sort of good at it. Or at least I am. I’ve basically gone pro.
I want to be offended by the implication that I somehow attract corpses like a slice of peanut butter attracts jelly, but my track record speaks for itself, and arguing with evidence is generally a losing proposition, especially when the evidence is currently cooling off in a velvet chair.
“I was sort of dancing,” I protest, though calling what just happened dancing is being generous to the point of outright fiction. “He spun me around, pulled me onto his lap, and then just... died. Right on me. Like, literally used me as a human deathbed, which is not exactly how I planned to spend my evening.”
I told you he smelled off,Fudge adds.Do I get treats for being right about the murdered guy?
This is not the time for treats,Fish is quick with her reply.
There’s always time for treats if you try hard enough—not to mention a homicide investigation,Fudge argues with the logic of a cute pooch who clearly has his priorities straight.
We still don’t know if he was murdered,Sherlock adds and both Fish and Fudge look up at him with their mouths hanging open.
Fish sniffs.Not murdered? Sherlock Bones, have you met Bizzy?Of course, this is a murder. The woman practically hashomicide waiting to happenwritten all over her.
I wince just hearing it—because she’s not exactly wrong.
